The Thrill of the Catch (Celtic Thunder)
by jomariewrites
Summary: This is a narrative adapted from Celtic Thunder's musical production "Storm." It follows the story of a young Irish girl, torn between the love of her older brother and the handsome gypsy that ravages their village.
1. Prologue

Prologue

The boy knelt at the edge of the river and scooped a handful of water to rinse the dirt off of his knees. His dark hair stood on end, and his clothes were disheveled from play. But the light in his blue eyes matched the smile on his face. Today was his seventh birthday, and birthdays were always good days.

A sound caught his attention and he started in surprise. He noticed a small figure on the other side of the river, a young girl. He'd never seen her before. She looked younger than he was by a couple of years. She brushed her blonde hair out of her eyes impatiently as she concentrated on digging a rock from the shore.

He sat back and watched her eyebrows furrow in frustration. The rock wasn't coming free, and it wasn't making her happy.

He had a sister of his own at home and knew how demanding and unreasonable girls could be. He scampered across the bridge, kneeled at her side to dislodge the rock, and placed it into her palm. He was pleased at the smile that replaced her frustration. The girl smiled shyly up at him, and said quietly, "Thank you… I'm Briana."

"You're welcome, Briana. I'm—" His words were cut short as a flash of pain went through his head. Dazed, he found himself sprawled out on the ground. He looked up to see a boy of his own age standing over him with hands on his hips and eyes full of venom.

"That's MY sister, Gypsy," he sneered. "Don't ever touch her again. We're going home. Come on, Bri," he ordered, and the girl followed him obediently away from the river, looking over her shoulder as she went.

The gypsy boy held his head and tried not to cry. Today was his birthday. Bad things aren't supposed to happen on your birthday. He slowly walked back across the bridge and into the camp that was his home. An older woman looked up from the step of a wagon. "Colin!" she called in alarm. There was a trickle of blood coursing down his cheek. The boy was caught up in his mother's arms, the washing forgotten. His father looked up and raised an eyebrow.

"A boy hit me, Papa. I think he was from the village."

"And what were you doing?" his father asked, mildly. "They don't come to our side of the river."

"I—" The boy knew he'd broken the rules. He lowered his eyes but his expression remained stubborn, "He called me 'Gypsy.' I don't think he meant it nice."

The man laid a hand on his son's dark head. "Let it go, Son. Sometimes we just have to let it go."

Colin felt torn between the words of the man he admired and the feelings in his own heart. To himself, he whispered "I hate him."


	2. Chapter 1

**Chapter 1**

The moon shone brightly over the village, but storm clouds threatened to cover it soon. The man in black crouched next to the bridge and spoke quietly to his followers. "We'll wait for the first roll of thunder. Then, we go. Take anything you find of value. VALUE, mind you. _Ronan_." Ronan hung his head. There had been that small matter of the absconded sheep dung.

The Gypsy King surveyed the band of men that surrounded him. He singled out a slight figure and removed its hat, "And YOU are to go back home, Kira."

A fiery young woman of long dark hair, with eyes to match the color of his own, glared at him. "But Colin! I never get to come. It's not fair!"

The boy who'd become a man smiled at his little sister. "I didn't get us to where we are by being fair, lovely. Now get out of here. I'll bring you a present." With a huff, the girl stalked back over the bridge toward their camp. Eleven pairs of eyes followed the sway of her hips. The twelfth pair had grown cold. "You lads looking at something?"

"No, sir," they all rushed to assure him. They'd each learned their lesson when it came to making eyes at the Gypsy King's baby sister. His fists were effective teachers.

The clouds darkened the night, and the Gypsies returned their eyes to the village they were about to ransack. An open square sat in the middle of the town, the evening's community fire still smoldering. Several simple cottages surrounded the square, but all was dark below.

Colin held up one hand and waited, his muscles tense, his eyes on the sky. Finally, the thunder crashed. He gave a triumphant yell, and his band of thieves raced into the still quiet. It was a cacophony of movement and sound. Benches were overturned and hurdled over. Pots and pans were pilfered. The treasure chest was rifled through. Chaos reigned supreme.

A blonde woman stood at the edge of the village square. She hadn't been able to sleep, so she had slipped out of her cottage to sit by the well outside of town. It was always calm and peaceful there and its coolness helped ease her mind. That's what she told herself, anyway. She would never admit to herself that she waited, hoping that "he" would come. "The Hound of Hell," they called him. He was a scourge on their village. His band of gypsies was constantly wreaking havoc, but she remembered him as something different, something kinder from long ago. She shook her head to clear the memory. He probably didn't even remember and his men stood between her and the safety of her cottage.

Briana prayed quickly for safe passage and then rushed through the square, intent on reaching the doorway. Surprised, she gave a quick scream when an iron hand clamped onto her arm. She drew her other hand back to slap the face of the man it belonged to. But, when she turned, she found that she couldn't. It was him, the Gypsy King. He stood a couple heads taller than her own height, and his black hair curled a little over his ears. His dark slacks clung to his thighs, and his white shirt opened halfway, hinting at the contours that lay underneath. She wondered what he looked like now that he was a grown man.

They both stood still, seemingly frozen in time as they looked at each other. The look in his eyes softened for just a moment and his lips parted to speak. "You-" Before he could say more, one of his men rushed by and wrenched the girl out of his grasp. She was slippery though and managed to maneuver out of his arms and across the square to her cottage.

She burst through the door and woke her older brother, "Darren! The gypsies!" Like an alarm had been sounded, the village men poured into the town square. Briana watched anxiously from the window. Villager against gypsy, the men struggled and fought. The Gypsy King gave a yell, and his men made a hasty retreat toward the bridge. She held her breath as her brother came to blows with their leader. It always came to blows between those two men. Every time.

The town seemed to breathe a collective sigh of relief as the village was purged of its thieves. Briana ran out to check on Darren. He was in the midst of educating the village's children on every curse word in the language, and probably a few in languages no one had ever heard. Darren and Briana both looked across the bridge at the other side of the river where the Gypsy King and his men had retreated, their camp somewhere beyond.

Darren continued to swear, angry to have been bested by that Gypsy again. But Briana smiled to herself.

The Gypsy King had remembered.


	3. Chapter 2

"Here, Papa. I brought you some water." The older man accepted it from his daughter, Regan, with a distracted smile and leaned against the wall of the cottage. It had been a long night, and a long morning followed it. This was his village, and as its mayor, he felt responsible for everything that happened in it. It was his job to make sure that everyone was fed, to settle disputes, to keep the hot-headed young ones from making rash decisions, and to keep them all safe. But, this morning, it was his job to organize the clean-up that last night's Gypsy raid had necessitated. Was it his imagination or had there been more of them lately?

Now, as the morning's pink light faded, everything had been put back in order. Inventory had been taken to discern any losses, and breakfast was about to be enjoyed. The villagers all stood around the fire and waited for him. Patrick cleared his throat and bowed his head.

He prayed thanks and blessing that God had protected them from the previous evening's attacks, that no one had been harmed, and asked for the Lord's continued protecting in the future.

Patrick glanced around the square. Squire Philip, the son of the biggest landowner in the valley, was in the midst of telling a joke to the men gathered around him. Occasionally prone to bouts of romanticism, he was a kind man, with a bright future and was well-liked by all. Patrick had hopes to groom Squire Philip to take his place when he was too old to lead the village. But, that was some time off yet.

Off to the side, Darren was consuming his breakfast alone, absently brushing his too-long hair out of his eyes. He'd had to grow up quickly when both his parents had been killed some years earlier in a freak seaweed accident. Others had tried to take Darren and his siblings in, but he had been adamant that he could care for them himself. There had been some business about deathbed promises made to his father. Darren did his best to care for his younger brother and sister. He spoiled and doted on the girl, Briana, but Patrick thought he was just a bit too hard on the brother, Seth. Patrick tried to cushion that by going out of his way to encourage the young boy.

Darren was prone to encouraging the villagers to occasional bouts of violence, usually against the gypsies whom he hated with a passion. No one quite knew where the strength of his feelings came from. The gypsies were a problem, to be sure. But, Darren always seemed to make it personal. Despite his moodiness, he was often a big help. The young girls were crazy about him, but he never seemed to notice.

Patrick clapped his hands together and stood before the townspeople. "My friends," he began. "Last night, we had a little trouble. But let's have some faith. God led us here and gave us these lands, and He will protect us from the wolves that scratch at our doors."

Squire Philip stood and clapped a hand to Patrick's shoulder. "Well said. Our history is written here in this town. Our future will be written here as well, as has been promised."

A tentative hand rose from the front of the crowd. Patrick smiled indulgently. "Seth lad, you have something to say?"

The young boy stood with Patrick and faced the crowd of people. He knew them all but somehow they were all more daunting when they were faced en masse. He was determined to participate in the grown-up talk and tried valiantly to keep the tremor out of his voice. "I just think that we work so hard on the farms, and that- that—we shouldn't let anyone take that away from us."

"Well said, grasshopper. Hear, hear," came the sarcastic quip from the back.

Seth flushed, but Patrick nodded at him encouragingly. "Thank you, boy. You're right," and he leveled a warning look at the lad's brother.

Darren stood and ambled to the front. "What are we doing?" he asked quietly. "More and more often, the gypsies come. We work so hard, all of us. We work so hard to feed this village, to care for our loved ones. And their 'King,'" he fairly spat out the words, "their king takes it into his head that it's perfectly fine to come and destroy everything we've done." He looked each man in the eye. "I'm done with it. It's high time we fight back, not just to keep them on their side of the river, but to drive them out of Ireland entirely!" Darren emitted a snort of disgust when no one responded and stalked angrily from the square.

Patrick sighed. Their villagers were not soldiers. They weren't soldiers or bandits or warriors. They were farmers, skilled with a hoe and livestock, but not with weapons. An uncomfortable silence followed, but was soon broken by the sound of a fiddle, and the day continued on.

Across the river, breakfast was also served, but the mood was far more festive around this campfire. The gypsies laughed and sang together, still high off the adrenaline of the night's adventures. A pile of fine cloth and gold lay on the ground at Colin's feet. He bent down to retrieve a golden cup and held it aloft.

"My illustrious friends," he began with a smile. "Last night was some adventure, eh? There was a time when this land was ours and ours alone until those invaders took over and drove us from our homes. But, we are not weak and we are not powerless! We will drive them from our land and reclaim what is ours!" Colin brought the cup down to eye level and gazed at it thoughtfully. "To us!"

His men lifted their voices, music filled the air, and their celebrations began anew. He watched with a smile on his lips and then retired to his wagon for a bit of rest after the night's activities. He tossed the cup onto a pile and flopped onto the bed of straw.

A voice came from a darkened corner. "That was impressive, Brother."

Colin started. "Kira!" She grinned at having startled him, and he muttered, "What are you doing in here?"

"You promised a present."

He pulled a chain from his pocket and tossed it in her lap. "Spoiled brat," he called her with an indulgent wink.

Kira fastened the chain around her wrist and sat before a little mirror to admire how it looked. "I am not. I just have the sweetest brother." She paused and turned to him, suddenly serious. "Why are we doing this, Colin? In the beginning, I thought we did it so we could feed everyone, so we wouldn't starve. But…" She gestured to the pile of gold building in the corner. "Aren't we past that? "

Colin's eyes hardened. "They think they're better than us, Kira. They treat us like we're nothing. Don't you ever get tired of that? Don't you ever want to be treated like you're someone?"

She knelt by his side and placed her palm against the side of his cheek with tenderness. "Colin, you ARE someone. All those men out there worship you. They're a little _scared_ of you sometimes, but they worship you. Isn't that enough?"

Colin got up and opened the back door of the wagon. Looking back at her, he almost whispered, "No."

Then, he was gone.


End file.
